


I'm Mine, I'm Yours

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: slow as honey [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Smut, tumblr prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first he thinks she's injured. </p><p>She's very, very not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Mine, I'm Yours

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about this, to be honest. So I give it to the masses to pass judgment and tell me. 
> 
> Inferences that are a little D/s. More like power-swapping but you know.

Maria Hill likes being marked.

It’s not something she’s ever explicitly said, but Steve takes great pride in just how observant he is. It’s one of the smaller things he’s held onto since his skinny Steve days, the ability, despite his size, to disappear and just watch.

The first time he notices it, he’s admittedly a little concerned. He catches the way her hand keeps straying to her hip, the way her fingers stroke, the way her palm presses. It’s like a reflex, like she’s checking on an injury and it’s worrisome. When had she sustained the injury?

He is, however, patient, watches her for the rest of the day, the way her hand strokes as much as it presses. There are more than a few moments where Steve really considers that maybe it’s an injury that is still bleeding, like she’s checking to see if there’s something soaking the dark blue of her dress. It’s incongruous, really, because she’s not moving gingerly on those weapons she calls shoes. Then again, she’d pulled glass from her foot and strutted around the next day like it was a regular Tuesday at the office…

“Captain?”

Caught.

His eyes slide up her legs – because he cannot help it, he has a thing for her legs and she knows it – dance over her hip where there is absolutely no evidence of any injury, of anything really, then up, up. Her eyebrow is arched because even for him this is blatant.

“Something wrong with your hip?”

He’s imagining the light blush that stains her cheeks, a trick of the light or something, because there’s no way Maria blushes anywhere outside the bedroom and even then, it’s not because she’s anything other than aroused. He catches the twitch of her arm against her side, like she wants to go for it again and he almost smiles.

“No.”

“Maria-“

She shuffles the files around in front of her, tucks her tablet into the curve of her elbow. “There’s nothing wrong.”

She can’t be wrong. It’s not like she’s been favouring her hip, not like she’s been limping, but there are stories of just how good Maria is at hiding her pain and, honestly, he’s a little fixated. The entire thing is out of character for a woman so carefully contained.

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“Then why do you keep touching your hip?”

She huffs, irritation mixing with… resignation?

“I’m not hurt.”

“Then let me see.”

“No.”

Except, while he’s observant and patient, he’s also stubborn and they both know it, most particularly when it comes to the well-being of his people.

Maria definitely falls under the category of ‘His’.

The shiver drills up and down his spine, the possession he tries so hard to keep out of this thing that they’re doing rising up in his chest. He sucks in a deep breath and closes his eyes, lets it flood him for a moment before shoving it back down.

Her gasp startles his eyes open again.

It’s so, so quiet, the kind of sound the human ear could never hear, and by the time he fixes his gaze on her face, it’s only in her eyes, a thrill, a heat that he’s familiar with. Not here though, never here, only when he has her spread out beneath him, dark hair against the white sheets of his bed

It’s there now.

He isn’t fully sure when he rounds the table, when he reaches for her, wraps his hand with deceptive gentleness around her upper arm.

“Maria.”

She glances down at the files then up at him, like there’s a decision to be made. This time, there’s no mistaking the flush that’s rising in her face, both its appearance and the reason behind it. His fingers tighten, just a little, and he sees the reaction in the subtle flare in her eyes.

“Follow me.”

He does, of course – as if he’d do anything else, and less because it’s an order and more because, while she may or may not know it, he is utterly addicted to her – down the winding halls until she stops in front of her suite. A couple of quick swipes of her fingers over the keypad and they’re inside.

He reaches for her immediately, gets his hands on her hips and tugs her back into the hard unyielding heat of his body. She tenses for a split second, then goes utterly pliant as he splays a hand over her stomach, slides it around until he’s pressing against the hip she’s been touching all day.

“Maria.”

Her entire body shakes with the shiver that drills through her, but she tugs away from him just a little, just enough. He watches her step further into her suite, set the files carefully, deliberately on the table before she turns to face him.

“Coming?”

She’s standing at the end of her bed when he steps into her bedroom, poised, strong, beautiful. He steps into her, slips his hands to her hips again, presses his thumbs in.

She shocks the hell out of him when she gasps and arches into the touch.

He drops to his knees immediately, ignores the sound of protest she makes as he yanks her skirt up her thighs. Comfortable utilitarian panties, but his eyes aren’t focused on that. With her skirt at her waist, the brilliant bruise is visible on her skin and his breath catches.

So does hers.

He glances up at the way her eyes flutter, feels her palms come to rest on his shoulders. She sways, though there’s nothing dangerous about it, and something niggles at the back of Steve’s mind. He leans in, traces light fingers around the edge, barely registers the almost-whine she releases.

And sees the blurred outline of what can only be teeth.

His mind flashes with memory, the taste of her skin beneath him just a couple of days ago, the arch of her body when his hands had tightened on her thighs, the desperate sound she’d made as his tongue danced around her belly button. He remembers biting, he thinks, sucking on her skin and the thrill he’d felt when she’d let him.

But it’s nothing compared to the sound she makes when he leans in and gently, so, so gently, fits his teeth against the mark.

The moan she releases is like nothing he’s ever heard before. Long and low and maybe a little desperate. Her fingers clench on his shoulders, bite into the skin, but he barely feels it beneath the realization that she’s been touching this mark all day.

His mark.

The most independent woman he knows, a woman he would never even consider messing with outside of the confines of these four very private walls has spent all day reminding herself that she’s his.

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

The laugh is a little self-deprecating, a little nervous, her eyes a little wry. He kisses the mark softly, strokes his fingers over her lower back because dammit, the last thing he wants is for her to feel embarrassed about it.

He certainly doesn’t.

If anything, it forces him to reign himself in just a little bit harder to avoid tumbling her to the bed and taking her. He breathes out against her hip, harsh and hard, fingers slipping over the cotton covering her ass to squeeze her upper thighs. He nuzzles the mark, breathes slowly through his nose and realizes just how strong the scent of her is. It feels a bit like a dream.

Maria Hill, self-possessed, untouchable Maria Hill, likes being marked.

There’s nothing he can do about the way possession rises up in him this time, isn’t even fully aware of his fingers tugging down her panties until they’re tangled around her ankles. He really has no thought at all besides the salt of her skin beneath his mouth, the way her hand slides into his hair and tugs at the gentle suction of his mouth on her thigh.

So he sucks harder.

She stumbles, surprises them both into laughter before he stands, guides her back the two or three steps until she can sit on her bed. He takes her mouth then, biting harsh kisses that she returns with equal fervor, nails digging in just to either side of his spine as he collapses to his knees. Her skirt is still around her waist, and his hands stumble over the fabric as he races to find the zipper.

He wants her naked. Yesterday. Wants access to all that skin, to see if she moans just as desperately with is mouth against her rib, her neck, her breast.

He growls into the kiss when no zipper reveals itself and Maria laughs into his mouth. Her hands leave his skin and the growl turns into a strange-sounding whine that has her laughing again. But he can also feel the shift of her dress, realizes through his arousal and possession-fogged brain that she’s tugging it up her body, over her breasts…

He has no idea where it goes after that. He also doesn’t care. He’s already reaching around her body, undoing her bra like it’s a skill he’s had his whole life rather than something he probably had to practice a few more times than he’d like to admit. He almost tangles her in it, in his desperation to just get it gone. She gasps and arches when he gets a hand on her breast, pushes into the press of his fingers.

“Sweetheart,” he hears himself whisper as he leans in.

“Not your sweetheart.”

She says it every time – every single time – but he grins above her breast, eyes finding hers. “Maybe not. But mine nevertheless.”

He expects a fight, expects her eyes to flare in offense. Instead he watches a shiver drill down her spine, feels her fingers tangle in his hair again and groans. He’s not gentle when he presses his mouth to her skin, sucks a mark into the skin above her heart as he presses a broad palm against her spine. His strength all but yanks her against him, sets her off balance. He slides his hand up her back, cups her neck to support her as she leans back, offers her neck, her chest, her belly to his mouth. He takes advantage. This is Maria and he can’t help himself, not when he knows that his mark on her hip has had her….

He shivers, hard, can’t stop himself from biting at her collarbone, trying to remind himself that he cannot leave marks where people can see, no matter how possessive he feels. No matter how much he wants to broadcast that this woman is absolutely his.

He moves his mouth from her collarbone, the skin she leaves exposed in her professional, put-together dresses and blouses. He bites at the rise of her breast again until there’s a red mark and she’s shaking. He lowers her back, spreads her out on her duvet, bites at her stomach, leaves a mark below her rib, then rises up to envelop a breast in his mouth. There’s nothing gentle about the way he sucks, nor in the way her body responds, arching, writhing, and he instinctively presses into her body, gathers her wrists and holds them above her head.

Her groan vibrates through him, and he presses his forehead to her stomach for a moment to keep from just taking her. He’s never been this violent with her, conscious of everything he is compared to everything she’s not.

“Steve.”

Jesus H Roosevelt Christ. She can’t do that, can’t sound that wrecked, can’t arch up against his hold like she is, writhing and desperate. She chokes off a sound when he gets his mouth on her opposite hip, pelvis arching when he bites kisses into her thigh. He has to let go of her wrists to pin her body in place as he licks a stripe through her soaking wet folds, groans at the heated slickness of her. He can’t remember the last time she’d been this wet for him, not without some methodical foreplay first.

There’s nothing methodical about this.

This is desperation. This is possession. This is Maria begging in the only way she’ll let herself; out of control and out of her mind, focused on the way his tongue thrusts inside her, laps at her clit. He growls as she fights against him, tries to get closer, faster, deeper. He bites a mark into her thigh for it, pulls that leg over her shoulder so he can wrap an arm over her hip and spread a hand across her pelvis. She cries out, her hand wrapping around his wrist, head thrown back and body one long, gorgeous, glorious arch. She’s never been shy about her pleasure, but this… This is different. It feels different in the way her muscles tense reflexively around his head, the way her nails dig into his arm.

This is raw.

He responds to it, the unself-conscious way she takes her pleasure, as much as he’s willing to give and he pulls his mouth away to watch her hips move despite his hand, to see the way her thighs shake by his ears. He takes in the red marks across her stomach and breasts, hears her whimper desperately as his thumb sneaks down to press against her clit. He circles it slowly, draws it out, shifts against her until he can slips a finger inside her. She flutters around his finger, moans and she is so, so wet, so open to him.

“Maria.”

He doesn’t know what else to say, has to hope that it’s all there in the sound of her name as he adds a second finger, speeds up the pace of his thumb around her clit. She chokes out a sound and he can’t help the way he turns his face into her thigh, watches her out of his peripheral vision because he wants to see this.

He wants to see her fall apart.

He applies himself to the task, moves his thumb, his fingers until her body tenses, arches and she comes with a gasp. Her head is tipped back, and he growls.

“Look at me.”

He’s not sure how she does it, what kind of will-power or sheer strength she has to use despite the way she continues to flutter around him, her body still tense, working herself through the aftershocks. Her eyes are glazed and bright, her cheeks flushed red and she looks resplendent.

“Sweetheart, you’re beautiful.”

She groans again, her head thumping back and he doesn’t understand for a moment until her hips start moving against his hands in earnest.

 _Jesus_.

He surges up, gets her hands in his. She doesn’t flinch at the wetness that coats his fingers, just gasps as he presses against her in all the right places. He growls as he takes her mouth, plunders. He pins her hands by her head, even as her legs come up around his hips.

And he cannot help himself.

He pulls away and strips, utilitarian and quick. He has other things on his mind as he crawls back onto the bed, up to her. He gets her hands in one of his, slips the other one between them so he can line himself up. She chokes off another noise as he presses inside, insistent, hard, hot. He presses his cheek to hers and closes his eyes against the way she tightens around him. She twists, but he’s too heavy, too strong, and he growls again. He nips at her ear, down her jaw.

“Stay still.”

He’s a little shocked when she does just that, goes utterly still beneath him. He pulls back to catch her eyes, sees the surprise and heat in them and almost laughs.

Well then.

He brings his hand back up, braces at her shoulder. “Leave your hands there,” he tells her softly. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

There’s a moment, a breath, where she decides what she wants, if this is something she can do. And he is handsomely rewarded when she blinks and nods. He leans in and kisses her, feels her shift and press against all the bare skin between them. He keeps the kiss slow, methodical, languorous because he knows the minute he starts moving he’ll be gone. He needs to take his time here, tell her, show her how much this means to him.

Her surrender.

“Put your legs around me.”

She does so immediately, eyes floating open as she pulls him in, close and deep. He has to breathe for a moment, nips at her earlobe as he does. His hands come up to cup her shoulders, hold her steady as he starts to move. She gasps with every hard, deep thrust, every push back against his hips.

“Yes, sweetheart. Just like that.”

She cuts off a sob by digging her teeth into her lip and he has to lean in, take that lip between his own. He doesn’t kiss her for long, can’t breathe while he does, and presses his lips to her cheek instead.

“Steve,” she manages. “Steve, please.”

He groans, thrusts harder and faster, shifts his hand so he can curl his fingers around the nape of her neck. “Maria.”

“More.”

He groans, speeds up, feels her arch against him in all the right ways, but it’s not enough. He can see it, feel it in the way her body moves against his. He kisses her cheek, her neck, her shoulder.

“Touch yourself, Maria.”

He leans back just a little, just enough for her to get a hand between them. He watches her eyes glaze and her breath hitch.

“Steve.”

There’s so much in her voice, need and want and a whole bunch of other things he doesn’t associate with this woman, perpetually in control and so, so sexy for it. But here, she’s choosing something different, he can feel it in the way her hips arch, needy and greedy. He groans, drops his head, and feels his control snap. He thrusts in earnest, feels her fingers pressing, twisting.

“Mine,” he growls into her ear. “You’re mine, sweetheart. You’ve got the marks to prove it.”

She keens, actually keens, and he can feel his own orgasm start at the bottom of his spine, spread heat through his stomach.

“Come for me. Come for me, Maria.”

He feels the minute shift of her fingers before she does, everything in her tense and shaking, just as beautiful the second time. He can’t help following her over, pulls her as close as he can get her as he does.

It takes them both more than a few minutes to come to, and when he does he shifts out of her, shushes her against the noise she releases. She’s still shaking, trembling, and he rolls to cradle her close, pulls up the afghan she keeps at the bottom of the bed. He strokes his hand down her back beneath the blanket, cradles her head on his shoulder.

It takes her another few moments before she finally shifts, fingers clenching and releasing against his chest. He kisses her hair, grits his teeth against the overwhelming emotions racing through him.

“You okay?”

She arches, hums again. “I’m more than okay.”

“That was…”

“Intense.”

He makes a sound of agreement, kissing her hair. “Thank you.”

“You gave me a handful of spectacular orgasms and you’re thanking me?”

“You gave up control,” he murmurs. “You don’t do that for just anyone.”

She looks at him for a moment, eyes intense. “No. I don’t.”

He kisses her again, can’t help himself because this is Maria Hill and her control is one of the most precious things she has. “Think you can make it to the shower?”

She arches an eyebrow, though the heat that’s still banked in her eyes makes him wonder if her legs will actually get her that far. “I’m a big girl. But maybe you should come wash my back anyway.”

He traces every mark he’s left on her in the shower, top to bottom, gently and carefully. He runs his hands over her skin, then her loofa, his hands gentle, worshipful. And when he’s done, Maria returns the favour, lathers him up and kisses him as the bubbles slide down his body. They towel themselves dry, and then Maria stands by the mirror for a moment, runs her fingers over the mark above her heart.

Steve steps up behind her, wraps his arms gently around her waist, splays a palm against her stomach.

“Well Captain, I’d say you’ve made your claim.”

An argument wells up in him because Maria is no one’s property and never will be, he knows that for a fact. But Maria’s eyes meet his in the mirror and something there makes him bold and sure.

“Indeed, Lieutenant,” he says against her shoulder. “I believe I have.”


End file.
